Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 36, No. 6, June, 1975

It ran like clockwork. The first body was left on the hood of Mike Shayne’s car. The second came addressed to the detective. But no one knew where the other two kidnap victims were — nor how they would be returned!

I

The lone thief bolted from the self-opening door as Michael Shayne curved from the sidewalk to enter the bank. The robber was hooded. He carried a gun in his right hand and a brown paper bag in his left. He crashed into the Miami private detective’s shoulder, yelped and spun off.

Shayne was off balance. He pitched toward the curbing, slammed palms against the fender of a parked car.

He whipped around to see the robber dodging and dancing between pedestrians in a weaving pattern along the sidewalk. A bank guard raced out of the door of the tall building, leveling a service revolver. There were screams of surprise and instant terror, hoarse shouts. The pedestrians split as if divided by a giant knife.

But the bank guard had a second thought. He did not fire the weapon.

Shayne moved out in a long-legged run, bulling and spinning and darting as the pedestrians moved back in on him like the receding of a tremendous wave. He no longer could see the robber, but his eyes picked up the split of the sidewalk crowd far ahead. Then suddenly there was no more division of pedestrians and the redhead knew his quarry had left the street.

Shayne puffed up to an alley entrance, saw the stares from the curious facing down the alley. He entered the alley. There was no one in sight, only the garbage cans and the litter. Near the opposite end of the block, a car was parked against one of the alley walls.

Shayne looked up. No climbers. He searched the opposite end of the alley. Walkers moved back and forth across the opening without breaking stride.

So his man was still in the alley somewhere, hunched, waiting. He could have a gun leveled on the detective’s middle in this instant, eyes squeezed down, muscles taut, trigger finger tensed. He could be waiting for one more step from the detective, just one more…

Mike Shayne knew he was a huge target.

He heard police sirens in the distance. The sound of the sirens was sweeping in fast.

He moved in behind a dented garbage can, squatted, then yanked out the .45. The movement should have triggered reaction from the robber. It didn’t.

Shayne sweated as he searched the shade of the macadam cavern. Had the robber found a hole in the alley and dived in? A door in one of the walls that formed the alley! That had to be it. Perhaps the escape route had been planned, a door left unlocked for a reason.

The robber could be inside one of the buildings, going up to a roof. Or he could be ridding himself of the hood, the paper sack, transferring the money to a legitimate-looking airline bag. In just a few seconds, he could be going out a front door of the building and blending into the sidewalk crowd, striding along with the noon walkers, moving just like anyone else with intent and destination on a short noon hour break.

Shayne left the meager protection of the garbage can and moved deeper into the alley, large jaw thrust, gray eyes searching every cranny, the gun ready in his hand. He tried a couple of doors. They were locked. He moved in behind the parked car, looked back down the alley.

All the redhead saw was the cluster of curious, pedestrians, still packed in the alley entrance, still watching.

No one had gone out that way. There would have been shouts, shrieks.

Shayne moved cautiously along the side of the parked sedan, and glanced inside. He froze. The man was on the floor of the rear seat, face down and hunched slightly, arms covering his hooded head as if he were warding off imaginary blows, the paper bag stuffed into a corner beside his elbow.

Shayne yanked open the car door and stepped on the man’s gun wrist. The man yelped and squirmed, but made no effort to lift his head. Rather, he seemed to be attempting to snake out of sight into a non-existent hole.

Shayne stared at the gun in the man’s hand. The gun looked like it had come from a grave. It was rusty and moldy and stiff.

The detective holstered his .45 and jerked the rusty gun from the man’s hand, and pitched it on the car seat. The gun hadn’t been fired in years, and was probably inoperable. Shayne caught clothing at the man’s shoulders and jerked him out of the car. The face was screwed up in fright, the eyes held a gleam of terror. The man attempted to lift his hands.

Shayne knelt on one knee and clutched the man’s shirt front, jerked him into a sitting position.

The man babbled, “D-d-don’t shoot me, officer.”

Shayne sighed, stood. “Come on, pal. On your feet.”

The man cowered. “I was — desperate. I ain’t got a job. I’m hungry.”

Shayne grabbed the paper bag, looked inside. There were a few one dollar bills. Nothing more.

“It… it’s all the woman gave me,” the man babbled. “Honest — officer. I didn’t lose none of it running.”

Shayne almost felt like giving the guy fifty bucks and telling him to scramble. The guy would be ahead.

Novices!

The detective snorted.

II

Donald Varga was a novice at this kind of game, and he was nervous. He gripped the steering wheel of the parked panel truck tightly as he stared across the intersection. Fingers worked, perspiration filmed his dusky skin.

Beside him, the girl glanced at the cheap silver watch on her wrist. “It’s five o’clock, doll,” she said, tone flat. “Time.”

“She’ll be along,” Varga said in a voice that broke. “I’ve timed her four Tuesdays in a row. Five to five-fifteen, that’s when she hits this corner. We’ve got—”

Varga stiffened. “There she is!”

The girl who had appeared on the sidewalk across the street was a stranger, long-legged and narrow, but she moved with a certain grace. She walked alone toward the intersection, her arms crossed, holding library books against her middle.

Varga started the motor of the stolen truck. He had to time this right. The act had to be quick. If they were spotted, weeks of slide-rule planning would be wasted.

And he would not have his revenge!

From the back of the truck, a swarthy man chuckled. “Hey, man, she’s a looker too. Huh, Artist?” Dark eyes gleamed in new anticipation.

“Heavy, Pope,” breathed the long-haired youth who was squatted beside him. He sniffed hard through a long nose, then coughed.

Varga winced. In the last month, he had learned to dislike Artist Bass and to fear Steve Pope. But they had been Iris’ selections when he first had laid out his plan to her. And his plan called for help. He and Iris couldn’t pull the job alone. There was too much scheduled to happen in the next twenty-four hours.

So artist and Pope had been brought in. They were regulars at the joint where Iris had been a nudie. She knew them, knew what made them tick. Iris had few talents, but she had a lush body, and she was an exhibitionist. The combination had made her an expert on men. She had vowed Artist and Pope were the kind of men needed in a million dollar caper.

“Move, man, or you’re going to miss her!” Pope hissed, jerking Varga back at the moment.

He snapped the truck into gear and rolled across the intersection, glancing up and down the crossed street. All looked quiet. One car was moving toward them from the left, but it was far away. And the rest of the residential neighborhood seemed to be lolling in late afternoon lethargy, caught up in the stillness that preceded the daily storm of office workers rushing to green lawns from downtown concrete.

Varga’s heart pounded hard as he braked the truck against the curbing. He kept the motor running and twisted on the seat. Artist and Pope were crouched at the rear doors of the truck now. Suddenly they threw the doors open and pounced on the girl. She yelped, library books flew. Then the girl came skidding into the truck, sliding on her front. Artist and Pope jumped inside, yanked the doors shut.

“Roll!” Pope snapped. He had snaked out a gun, was crouched at the rear windows.

Varga moved the truck. He had to steel his foot. The temptation was to jam the accelerator to the floor. But he managed to drive at a sane pace, watching the reflections in the rear view mirror more than he watched the street ahead. Iris kept a lookout in the rear view mirror on the passenger side.

“Clean,” she breathed after three blocks. “Nothing behind us.”

Varga risked a look into the back of the truck. Lisa English lay trussed on the floor. She was face up, wrists taped together under her spine, another slash of adhesive tape plastered against her mouth and cheeks. She was breathing hard and her eyes were wide in fright.

Artist and Pope flanked her. They sat facing each other, buttocks on the floor, knees high, spines braced against the side of the truck. Artist grinned down on the girl from under the floppy hat, the brim of the hat shielding the top half of his face from Varga. He seemed at ease.

Pope stared at her. He was grinning, too. But there was a savagery in the twist of his face, the brittleness of his dark eyes. He reached out and patted the girl’s bare thigh. The girl writhed.

“No!” Varga yelped.

“Watch where you’re driving!” Iris snapped. She pushed the steering wheel.

Varga regripped the wheel, straightened the path of the truck. He breathed harshly. He had been heading into the curbing. Iris probably had saved them from smashing into a tree.

Varga shuddred. He had to get a grip on himself, take firm hold of the happenings. After all, he was supposed to be the leader, he had planned all of this, it was his operation.

He stiffened as he felt the muzzle of the gun pressed lightly against his neck. Pope snarled, “Don’t tell me no, man. If I want the cat, I take the cat!”

“You don’t take anything, Stevie-boy,” Iris said without looking at him. “You do all of your taking after the next twenty-four hours. There’s plenty ahead. With your cut, you can forget the kids. You’ll be able to afford women. Now put that goddamn popgun away.”

But it was twenty seconds before the muzzle of the gun left Varga’s neck. He sucked a rattling breath. The best day of his life was to be tomorrow. Tomorrow night they all would be in Mexico, rich, he and Iris would be heading for Mexico City and the commercial flight to Rome — but best of all, Pope would be out of his life forever and ever.

“We on schedule?” Artist asked from the back of the truck.

Iris glanced at the silver wristwatch again. In a couple of days she would be wearing a gold watch, new and sparkling. And in another week maybe she’d have it figured out how she was going to ditch Varga. Maybe she’d figure it after they were snug in Rome and she had time to think. Walking out was no problem, of course. She’d have her two hundred and fifty thousand and she knew how to stealthily open a door while a man slept. Latching on to Varga’s two-fifty was going to be the problem.

But she’d figure something that would work.

“We’re doing okay,” she said. “Plenty of time to get to the rec center. I just hope—”

She cut off the words, then grinned. “The kid didn’t pick this afternoon to go make out with his girlfriend after school instead of going to his handball game.”

“He’ll be there,” Varga said quickly. “He plays handball until six o’clock every Tuesday afternoon.”

The boy pushed open one of the large double doors of the city recreation center at ten minutes after six o’clock on that Tuesday afternoon and moved on quick strides toward the small motorcycle propped in the side parking lot.

He was a short, stocky youth with semi-long brown hair, wet and shiny now from shower. He carried an orange helmet in his right hand, and he didn’t pay any particular attention to the faded white panel truck parked across from the cycle, the rear doors open, two men bent and seemingly struggling with something heavy inside the truck.

“Hey, kid,” one of the men called out, “can you give us a hand?”

The boy hesitated, looked at the truck. He saw a driver, someone on the other side of the driver. At the back of the truck a slight, dark man was erect, waiting for his answer. Then the other man stood erect. He wore an easy grin under a floppy hat.

“We’ve got a heavy desk in here,” said the man with the floppy hat. “All we need is a little help jerking it to the doors. The driver’s a cripple, can’t help with the deliveries. And that’s his wife sitting on the other side.”

The boy approached the truck slowly. Uneasiness was alive inside him. He stopped, stood thumping the orange helmet against his thigh unconsciously.

Floppy Hat looked okay. He was grinning, relaxed, but the other guy was hard-looking. Tough.

“Come on, kid,” said the tough-looking man.

The boy didn’t move. He sensed an ominousness about the man, something sinister. It scared him.

The man proved to be snake-quick. He leaped forward, caught the boy in the half turn. He shoved a gun hard against the boy’s flat stomach. “Move it, kid,” he snarled.

The boy shuffled toward the back of the truck. He was tense but seeking an opportunity. He might be able to slash down with his arm, knock the gun hand away, smash one of the two men with his helmet.

He glanced inside the back of the truck, saw the trussed girl on the floorboard. She was straining, head up. Her eyes were wide, her mouth taped, and she was shaking her head violently.

The boy lashed out with his arms. And then something smashed the back of his head, driving him down to his knees immediately and bringing blackness.

He was out cold.

Varga squealed the rear tires of the truck moving out of the parking lot. He damned himself silently, swiped perspiration from his left eye, forced himself to lift the accelerator foot.

“Clear back here,” Artist said from the rear door windows. “Nobody comin’.”

“Looks clean, it looks clean,” Iris muttered, eyes glued to the reflection of the mirror at her side.

“Why didja hafta hit him?” wheezed Varga. “Jesus, if anybody saw that it was a dead give-away!”

“You wanted him, didn’t you?” Pope snarled. “You got him!”

Varga glanced over his shoulder. Tony Littrel was face down on the floor of the truck, unmoving.

“Is he… is he?”

“He’s okay,” Pope said, hefting the gun and waving it in mild warning. “Dreamland, that’s all. Saves taping him.”

“Tape him,” Iris ordered. “We don’t take no more chances than necessary. We’ve got two more to go.”

They abducted Jack Caulkins as he jogged along a quiet residential street, and they yanked Christina Jacobsen from a bicycle in Herman Park.

Forty-five minutes later, they were backed into the loading dock at the rear of the abandoned factory building in a dark, seedy area of the city. They walked Jack Caulkins and the two girls into the building. Then Artist breathed, “Hey, man, we got a problem. This one is dead.”

Varga froze on the loading platform. His heart beat wildly. Artist was squatted inside the truck beside the Littrel boy, the light from the flash strong on the youth’s spine.

Iris and Pope pushed past Varga, joined Artist. They examined the boy. “Goddamn…” whispered Iris. Pope said nothing.

Iris came out of the truck suddenly, took command. “We take the other three upstairs, put them away as planned, but we’ll have to get rid of this kid. You do it when you take the truck, Stevie-boy.”

“The hell with that,” growled Pope. “We’ve had the heap for hours now. Every car bull in town has got its make and number. Wheelin’ it is chancy enough. I don’t want no stiffs in the back end!”

“I’ll take him,” Artist said, moving out to the dock. “Help me load him into Varga’s car.” Artist was grinning.

Varga exploded: “Wait a minute! This changes everything! This—”

“It doesn’t change anything,” Iris said evenly. “So we dangle three plums instead of four. Damnit, I told you way back in the beginning, doll: we could get as much mileage out of two kids as four. You didn’t listen, natch, because you had this plan, the master plan all laid out. Well, it’s slightly different now, baby, but we’re still going for the million! We’ve gone too far to turn back! Okay, let’s get the other three upstairs to their beds.”

“You stay here, Varga,” Artist said. “Keep an eye on the corpse. Don’t let anyone steal him.” He chuckled.

III

Varga sat on the edge of the loading dock. He was greasy with sweat and he felt disjointed. His heart beat hard, there was a weakness in his muscles and his mind raced.

Maybe he should split while he had the chance. His car was there, just to his left, just where he had parked it that afternoon as they had launched the kidnaping operation. The car was six years old, had dents and rattles, windshield splayed on the passenger side, but the motor was tuned, the tires new. The car would carry him north to New York, Chicago, Minneapolis.

And he had about a hundred bucks in cash in his pocket, his last dime. He could make it. He’d prefer to fly, of course, prefer to wing on his own — piloting a plane alone was the only time he ever really felt at peace with life and the world — but that was out. Unless…

Maybe he could find a plane at International, steal it.

No! The theft would draw all of the attention to him, free the others, just what he didn’t need. He’d drive.

He dropped from the loading dock to his feet, then discovered his legs wouldn’t work. He stood there, fighting a fierce inner struggle. The others still were upstairs.

Even if they heard the start of the car motor, he could be gone and free of all this before they reached the dock area. On the other hand, he was giving up an opportunity of acquiring a tremendous bundle of cash, a good life with the lush Iris in some faraway place — and his revenge.

He seethed suddenly. In his mind’s eye, he briefly relived the angry conference with Alexander Johnson, his immediate superior in the city Health Department, Johnson informing him he was being terminated from the city payroll and handing him a work evaluation report to show him why. Johnson had typed: “General incompetence, laziness.”

Now Varga attempted to blank his mind. The words hurt deep. His only wish was that Johnson had had a child. But Alexander Johnson was a bachelor.

Varga used his hands to hoist himself back up on the loading dock. The city of Miami was going to pay!

He heard the trio approaching from behind him. Artist said, “All of the kiddies are tucked neatly into bed, man. You still got my corpse?”

Varga held up the car keys without looking around.

Artist took the keys. “So let’s get him into the front seat. Prop him up just like he’s a drunken passenger. Who’s gonna know? This is wild!” He laughed.

Varga didn’t move. Artist and Pope loaded the dead Littrel boy. They propped his head against the window on the passenger side. Artist grinned and rubbed his palms in glee, then dashed around the car and drove away.

Pope snarled, “That kid’s nuts.”

“So he gets his jollies drivin’ stiffs around town. So?” shrugged Iris.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Varga.

Pope muttered an oath and leaped down from the dock. “Hold his head, cat, while I dump this heap.”

Porter “Artist” Bass kept the speed of the sedan under the posted city limits. This was wild! He wondered how many other people in the world could boast they had carted a corpse around town, a stiff propped up in the front seat, that is.

He laughed to himself, kept an eye on the street. Traffic was light. In a way he wished it were daylight and the traffic was heavy. Popped eyes staring at him from other heaps would be kicks.

He laughed louder, slapped the steering wheel. Maybe he should stop at a drive-in, order a burger!

Hey, cool it, man. Varga’s plan held potential. It cried of wild happenings to come. The payoff tomorrow, the plane ride. He’d never been inside an airplane. That might be exciting. Mexico! He’d never been to Mexico. And he knew Mexico would be exciting. He could sense it in his bones. The two hundred and fifty thou — his cut — it’d get him to Rio. Eventually.

Rio. Beautiful. He could sprawl in the sun and sketch beautiful things. No mugs. God, no more mugs. He had his gut full of mugs, detectives, informers, raped housewives, robbed bankers, slugged truck drivers leaning over his shoulder, telling him to remove this line, add thickness there, shape the eyebrows down just a shade more, the corners of the mouth up.

“There! There he is! My rapist! My robber! My hijacker! That’s him, officer! Right there on the boy’s pad! That’s the man who did it to me!”

Once he had thought being an artist for cops might be exciting. Dullsville. He’d retired after two months.

This was more like it. The real scene, man. Driving around town with a stiff propped up beside you. Wildsville.

But he had a hunch he’d better watch Pope. Pope would turn on anyone, make for a bad scene. Pope was a loner, an iceman. Pope might even be harboring ideas about knocking off the three of them, splitting with all of the mill.

Had to watch Varga too. Varga was nervous and frightened. He had a brain, all right, was a squirrel for detail. It showed in how he had everybody scoped, had all of the pickups laid out, timed perfectly.

But Varga was no good when things didn’t fall into place. The weakness had surfaced when Pope had laid on the kid and killed him. Varga had gone bananas for awhile, and still was walking on nail ends.

Iris? Write her off. Iris was going to end up in a grave, with or without her cut. Yeah, she and Varga might split together, go off to the mountains somewhere, but nobody was going to keep Iris in the mountains. Iris would come down out of the hills and flaunt herself before the masses.

Eventually, someone was going to come out of those masses and kill Iris. It might be passion, rejection, jealousy — hell, her killer might even be Varga. Maybe he should stick with Varga and Iris for awhile. Maybe he’d get the opportunity to haul a stiff Iris to her grave.

How sweet that would be!

He laughed again, braked for a red stoplight. Okay, time to conjure. Where to drop a corpse? No rooftop, no alley. Too gauche. He needed to spark someone’s life tonight, provide a jolt.

Like to that old couple standing there on the curbing, gaping at him. They had the green walk light. Why didn’t they walk?

Ahhh. They had lamped the stiff propped against the side window glass. Maybe he should get out of the car, offer them the corpse to take home.

IV

Mike Shayne, private detective, was involved with the memory of a frightened, desperate, end-of-the-road, would-be bank robber. Shayne dallied with an after-dinner cognac, cupped the small glass in his hand and absently swirled the amber liquid around.

“Michael?” Lucy Hamilton said from across the table.

He glanced up, gave his secretary a rueful grin, suddenly hunched forward. “It isn’t often I get caught up, Angel,” he said. He shook his head. “But this guy… this guy had no more business trying to rob a bank, being in jail than—”

“I know, Michael,” Lucy said tenderly. Then she brightened. “Ready?”

“For what?”

“For a round of gin rummy.”

He laughed abruptly. The desperate bank robber vanished. He suddenly felt himself again. Lucy Hamilton was infectious. He drank the cognac, sipped ice water.

The Purple Duck, one of Miami’s new club-restaurants, had gained a quick reputation for good food and excellent service. The steak had been large and tender, the salad crisp, the waiter efficient and pleasant, and it was difficult to ruin straight Hennessey’s, so Shayne was reasonably comfortable as he paid the tab and escorted Lucy from the dining room area.

The Purple Duck did not hold a candle to The Beef House or The Golden Cock, a couple of the detective’s favorite haunts, but Lucy’s whim to try the new club seemed to have been appeased — if the twinkle in her brown eyes and the touch of smile that curled the corners of her delicate lips now were any indication — and Shayne was satisfied.

So to the gin game where his secretary’s smile would disappear. Lucy was a fierce competitor.

Outside the club, the nine-thirty night air was warm and clear, the sky bright with stars. Shayne was forced to shorten his stride slightly as he walked with Lucy into the parking area.

He towered over her, a hulk of a man, bulky yet lean, wide-shouldered, trim-hipped, thick but flat in body depth. To anyone observing him, it would seem that he was keyed, but inside the large body, his muscles and nerves were relaxed, his emotions tempered, and his mind toyed only with the slightly amusing thoughts of Lucy sitting alertly erect at the huge coffee table in her apartment, lamplight glints in her brown curls, her long fingers flying as she fed the gin hands.

The extra shadow changed him. Shayne stopped in mid-stride, tensed, caught Lucy’s arm in a reflexive movement. His fingers flicked across his coat buttons, opening the coat to give him swift access to the .45 fitted snugly in the shoulder rig.

“Michael?” Lucy breathed, unmoving.

“Easy, Angel,” he growled.

He stared hard through the darkness. The outline of his parked Buick was sharp against the reflected lights of the shopping center on the next street. The Buick sat at the end of the row of automobiles and was a couple of feet longer than any other car in the row.

It had another distinction. He had backed into the parking slot. The placing gave him a profile of the hood now. That profile was not right. There was an extra bulk. And the bulk was lumpy, without distinctive lines. It bulged from the Buick’s windshield.

“Stick, Angel,” Shayne said.

He eased forward, muscles and nerves prepared for action and reaction, eyes and ears tuned. His blood churned. He kept his right hand low and cocked across his middle. From the position, he could draw quickly, even while diving, if that became necessary, and trigger a shot from the .45.

The bulk on the hood of the Buick took shape, became the figure of a slouched man. He looked as if he were sleeping or sprawled in drunken oblivion. He didn’t stir.

Shayne eased slightly, lengthened his strides. He kept a sharp lookout to right and left, inventorying the shadows between the parked vehicles. No foreign shadows reared, no attack home.

He stood against the bumper of the Buick, looked around. He saw no one except Lucy out-lined now against the lights of The Purple Duck. Lucy had not moved.

He went around to the driver’s side of the Buick and clutched the shirt front of the slouched figure in his huge left hand. The figure spilled toward him, was flaccid and heavy. Shayne caught the bulk and knew immediately he was holding a youth. He eased the boy down to the macadam surface of the parking area, stretched him out flat on his spine. Opening the Buick door, he dived inside and yanked out the flash.

The strong light showed a boy, probably in his late teens. The boy wore faded blue tennies, no socks, tight jeans, a white T-shirt. He looked toned. His skin was smooth and brown. But his head lolled and his mouth was open. Shayne put the back of his hand against the open mouth. The boy was not breathing.

“M-Michael?”

Shayne looked up. Lucy stood at the hood of the Buick. “Someone left us a dead kid, Angel,” he said grimly.

He fished a wallet from a pocket of the jeans, flipped it open to identification cards. He found a driver’s license.

“Anthony Littrel,” he read aloud and scowled.

Littrel. The name had a familiar ring. From where?

V

Miami police Chief Will Gentry was an incongruous figure in the private office at police headquarters that Tuesday night.

He was the familiar solid bulk slouched deep in an old-fashioned wooden swivel chair behind a littered desk. There was an evil-smelling black cigar stub stuck in a corner of his bulldog face. His brows were drawn down tight, his eyes were hard slits, calculating, and his stomach growled periodically.

But that was where all blending into the blandness of the small room ended. Gentry wore a bright yellow and red-flowered shirt open to his chest, faded sand-colored military trousers, new sky-blue canvas shoes, and a wrinkled hat with the short brim turned down. He had been yanked from his boat at the marina.

“Judge,” he said, his tone flat, “you can go home now. It’s late, almost midnight. You’ve done all you can do here, and you’ve still got a tough chore ahead of you.”

“Yes,” nodded the small man who sat in the straight chair in front of the desk.

From his perch on a corner of Will Gentry’s desk, Shayne watched Municipal Judge Andrew Littrel stand. The detective thought the judge was holding up well, considering he had earlier identified a dead boy in the morgue as his only son, Tony, age 17, a senior at Kennedy High School.

The judge’s skin color was bad, his shoulders sagged and he was unable to completely control the quivering of his lips, but he seemed to be regaining strength. “It will be a long night, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “Mrs. Littrel will not understand why she no longer will hear the sound of the motorcycle. Only this afternoon it was a sound she barely tolerated. Tonight it will become a cherished sound.”

The judge bit his lower lip, blinked hard, then looked Will Gentry in the eye. “I will await your call. We will want to make proper funeral arrangements as soon as possible. Good evening.”

Gentry nodded, remained silent.

When Judge Littrel was gone, Shayne lit a cigarette, drew deeply on it. “Damnit, Will,” he said impatiently, “where’s Sturgis? How long does it take to check—”

“It takes a couple of hours, shamus,” said a deep voice from the doorway, “and you can consider that swift. We got lucky, found the people we wanted without prowling all over town.”

Len Sturgis, one of Gentry’s ablest detectives working out of Homicide, entered the office, turned the straight chair, straddled it and sat, thumbing a hat to the back of his head. He was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a straightforward manner.

“The judge’s speculation checks, Chief,” he said. “The boy seems to have followed normal routine. He went from school to the recreation center where he was on a handball court until five forty-five. He showered, dressed, and walked out the front door. The guy working the center’s desk remembers Tony leaving. He says the boy was alone.

“And the guy says he didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary before, at, or after Tony’s departure. There is one little wrinkle though. The rec place closes at nine, but it’s about nine-thirty or so when the employees get out of there, lock up. Tonight they spotted Tony’s cycle still in the parking lot, thought it strange. It was the only cycle in the lot.

“They decided the boy hadn’t been able to get it started, had left it. They put it inside the building for overnight. No one bothered to look it over. We’ve got it now. One of our people checked it out. It purrs like a small tiger.”

Shayne used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to tug the lobe of his left ear as he reconstructed aloud: “Judge Littrel said his son was due home for dinner at six-thirty, but the boy doesn’t make it and his bike is still at the rec place. Was he hit in the parking lot? Damn funny somebody didn’t see a killing in a parking lot of a public place at six o’clock in the evening. It’s light and you figure there are people around.

“There’s another angle too. It was three-and-a-half hours later when I found the body, and I doubt it had been on the hood of my car long. People were coming in and leaving the club in a pretty steady stream while Lucy and I were there. Somebody would have spotted the body, howled. So I’m making it this way: Tony Littrell was kidnaped, killed later, then his body dumped on my car just a few minutes before Lucy and I walked out of the Purple Duck.”

Gentry nodded and said sourly, “Doc is pretty sure about his preliminary finding, figures it will hold officially in the morning. Death caused by a blow from a blunt instrument against the back of the skull. What we need is motive! Why was the boy killed? In a fight? Or did some other kid have a beef against him? Was it an accident? Was it deliberate?”

He was interrupted by the short ring of his phone. He yanked up the receiver, scowled. His stomach rumbled as he listened, then he said testily, “Phillips, we’ve all got problems! I’m not in to anyone. Not at midnight, for God’s sake!”

Gentry slammed the phone together and mumbled, “Kooks. Some old nut been calling in all night, wants me, claims he saw a cadaver being hauled around town, wants to tell me about it, been driving Phillips up the wall with his calls, says—”

The phone interrupted him again. He jerked the receiver to his ear. “Phillips, I told you to—” He broke off the words, listened hard.

Shayne watched Gentry’s face darken, saw the cigar stub tilt higher. Gentry’s eyes became stilts. He put the phone together slowly this time, said from deep thought, “That was Anderson in Missing Persons. He’s got kind of an odd thing going. Earlier tonight he had two reports on missing kids, teenagers. Both girls.

“One is a Lisa English, daughter of Lawrence English, city planning coordinator. She failed to come home for dinner from a stop at the Urbandale Library, and hasn’t been heard from since. The other is Christina Jacobson, daughter of Barbara Jacobson, the mayor’s personal secretary. The kid went bike riding after dinner, disappeared.

“And now Anderson just god a third call. It was from Jason Bundy of the city attorney’s staff. His wife’s son, Jack Caulkins, seems to have dropped from sight. He was supposed to be home at nine, hasn’t shown. They know the boy was playing chess with an ex-school teacher friend earlier tonight, but he left the teacher’s place around eight. Then — nothing.”

Gentry paused, bit hard on the cigar stub. “Got the connections?” he said after a few heartbeats. “Three teens — and all offspring of city employees.”

“And the Littrell boy, Will,” Shayne said bluntly.

“Mike, what the hell is going on?” the chief rasped.

VI

Shayne found out what was going on early the next morning. A ransom demand for one million dollars from the City of Miami was received by the mayor.

“Fantastic!” breathed the mayor, shaking his head. “I’m having trouble, Mr. Shayne, believing this is happening. Forgive me.”

Shayne sat in a leather barrel chair placed directly in front of the mayor’s polished desk. The only items on the desk were a telephone, a yellow legal pad, a ballpoint pen, the ransom note and its envelope.

The mayor sat in a huge, black leather chair behind the desk. He was cocked forward on his elbows, a thin, impeccably dressed man with shiny skin and troubled eyes. He scowled at Shayne.

“All right,” he said abruptly, his voice suddenly level. He was in command of his emotions again. “We are confronted, Mr. Shayne, with three kidnaped children, frightened parents, and a demand for one million dollars in cash.”

There may have been a fourth, I’m told. The son of Judge Littrel. That, of course, is speculation. There is no mention of the boy in this note.

“However, Mr. Shayne, I called you in, because both Judge Littrel and I have a deep feeling that all four cases are related. The police are doing all they can — but… Well, Judge Littrel especially wants you. He insists on hiring you, and personally, I’m enclined to agree with him. Officially, I’m sure the police and public agencies will do all they can. Still, they are public…” He let it hang.

Shayne picked up on it. “You feel I might be able to do more in a private capacity?” When the Mayor nodded, Shayne went on, “I really feel the police are in a better position to handle it.”

The mayor interrupted him. “Nevertheless, both Judge Littrel and I want to hire you. We want police involvement at a minimum. You are the best in town, we understand. We have,” he emphasized, “already decided.”

“I’ll do all I can, of course,” Shayne stated.

“Good,” The mayor said, obviously relieved. “Here is the note we received.” He pushed it across the desk to Shayne, who quickly scanned it.

The note had been penciled in crude block letters. It might have been the printing of a kindergartener: “We have three kids. Want $1 million. Cash. Wednesday, 4 P.M. You bring. Flamingo Park. We’ll be watching. These kids can die!”

“There’s a death threat in that note, Mayor,” Shayne reminded him grimly, “and already there’s one dead kid down at the morgue. Put it together. Someone has been planning, someone had these kids spotted, their habits catalogued, someone made a sweep. Someone knew when to find the English girl leaving the library, young Littrel leaving the recreation center, the Jacobson girl out bike riding, and the Caulkins boy leaving a chess game. You add it that way, mayor, and you’ve got a pretty damn tight package.”

“And?”

“What I’m saying,” Shayne continued, “is that this is a police matter already. They generally allow a free hand to private individuals in a kidnapping case — until the freedom of the victim is secured — or his death.”

The mayor drew a breath. “I had hoped to keep this quiet for a few hours.”

“The only way you can keep this kind of plot quiet, Mayor,” Shayne said gruffly, shifting impatiently in his chair, “is with the cooperation of the media. Too many people are involved. Parents, friends…” He waved a hand. “Anyway, I’m inclined to feed everything we’ve got to the police and the media. If we clam up, the kidnapers are likely to think some hanky-panky is taking place. They don’t ask us to keep it quiet. They seem to want publicity.”

Grimly, Shayne continued, “I think this may be the first time out for the kidnapers. Take the ransom note. One of your people, Mayor, comes to work a little early, finds the note propped on a wash basin in a public lavatory. Somebody had to walk into this building this morning, put the note there. That’s taking a chance…”

Shayne waved an arm. “It’s popular now, but I don’t believe a pro would risk that kind of exposure if it was unnecessary — and it was unnecessary since you have a telephone. Why expose yourself making delivery of a ransom note when all you have to do is use the U.S. mail or pick up a telephone?”

“Fear of bugging?” the Mayor suggested.

Shayne snorted. “Not likely. It would be more likely that the homes of the victims,’ parents would be bugged. Not a Civic office.”

“I see your point,” the mayor agreed, eyes squeezed down. “Joe Pierce — it was Joe Pierce who found the note — called me at my home before eight o’clock. Normally, gentlemen, foot traffic in this building is not heavy before nine a.m. So the deliverer didn’t even wait for the heavy flow of people around the building, an hour when he could be just another face in the hundreds of faces that are in and out daily.”

A light on his phone blinked on, the phone buzzed. The mayor frowned, reached, hesitated. “Excuse me. I was not to be disturbed, however there is a substitute for Ms. Jacobson this morning. She phoned me during the night about her missing daughter; I told her not to come in today. But I didn’t think — didn’t realize…”

He lifted the receiver to his ear without finishing his thought. And then his frown deepened and he stared hard at Mike Shayne. “Oh? Just a moment, please.” He cupped the phone. “You know a newspaperman named Tim Rourke with the Daily News?”

Shayne grunted an acknowledgement. Rourke was a veteran reporter, and Shayne and the cadaverous-looking reporter had been friends ever since the redhead arrived in Miami.

The mayor said hesitantly, “Mr. Rourke informs me he has had a telephone call from a man who says that four young people were kidnaped last night and that one is dead. The caller told him I knew the details, and wanted to know why there wasn’t anything in the morning paper.”

Shayne reached across the desk and took the proffered phone from the mayor’s hand. “Tim.”

“Mike! What the devil are you doing—”

“Give it to me, Tim. Just like the guy said it.”

Shayne listened, then snapped, “He mentioned the Littrel boy by name, huh, but none of the others. And said the mayor knew about it?”

“Mike, our overnight police reporter picked up the report on the Littrel kid. He made the final city edition with it, but that’s all. He had trouble getting the facts. Gentry’s boys were dragging their heels here and there. We’ve got it fullblown this morning, of course, but where the hell do these other three fit? Were there four kidnapings last night?”

Shayne ignored the question. “The voice, Tim. Anything distinctive about it?”

“Naw. Youngish, I’d say…” Rourke paused, then said, “Well, hell, Mike the guy actually sounded disappointed because we didn’t have the full story. So give, huh? This nut wants the world to know what he’s done!”

“Okay, Tim, get over here and talk to the mayor. He’ll give you what he has. Then you might want to track down Len Sturgis later. He’s been on top of this from the beginning, at least he was on it last night.”

“Hey, Mike, wait a minute! Can’t you and I meet some—”

“I’m rolling, Tim. Maybe I’ll have something else for you in an hour or two.”

Shayne put the phone together, looked at the mayor. “We’re dealing with a brazen bastard or bastards. He puts a body on the hood of a car in an open parking lot, he walks into a public lavatory in a city building and leaves a demand for one million bucks, and then he calls the newspaper and wants to know why they don’t have a story.

“Whoever these people are, no matter how many of them are in on the plot, there’s one among them who is a kook or a publicity hound. And that’s a scratch on our side, Mayor. Sooner or later, he gets too brazen.”

“We don’t have much time to wait for him,” the Mayor said anxiously. “Not if the city meets the payoff demand. That’s at four this afternoon, just five hours from now.”

“Get it done,” Shayne snapped. “Hit the bank boys, lay it on them, twist arms, necks. Get the cash, Mayor. We may have to actually make that delivery.”

The redhead stood to leave and turned toward the door.

“Mr. Shayne,” the mayor halted him, “About one thing. It is not your time. It is my own and Judge Littrel’s time. Please bill us. Cost is — no object.”

“I’ll think about it,” Shayne growled, heading for the door.

VII

Shayne dialed the central desk at police headquarters from a pay phone. He got Guy Andretti, with whom he had a wave-of-the-hand acquaintance. Andretti checked the records of the overnight trick, gave the detective the information he wanted and the name Alfred Fowler and a street address. Shayne now knew all the police did. And maybe more.

It was purely hunch, Shayne knew. But Phillips’ call to Gentry when Shayne had been at the police station had bothered him. Two old people wanting to report a corpse in a car… Right time, but was it the right place? Or only excitable elders? Shayne determined to find out.

On the way to the Fowler residence, Shayne half listened to radio music until the five-minute newscast came on. He listened intently as the newsman got excited over the murder of Anthony Littrel, son of Municipal Judge and Mrs. Andrew Littrel. The Littrel boy had been found by Michael Shayne, a famed Miami private investigator, whose secretary said he was unavailable for comment.

There was no mention of four kidnapings.

The fowler bungalow tilted slightly and was located in the heart of a retiree, Social Security neighborhood. The street was quiet, the houses small. Most of the area was neat.

Alfred and Martha Fowler were tidy too. Alfred Fowler was bent at the shoulders, but sprite. Martha was birdlike, alert, but obviously had a sight problem. She sat in a deep chair four feet from the television tube; it was easy for her to reach out and turn down the sound.

“Martha,” said Alfred, unable to totally surpress a moment of victory, “this is Mr. Shayne — a detective! Someone at police headquarters finally listened to me!”

Martha squinted at the large redhead from behind thick glasses. “You are not a police detective, Mr. Shayne,” she said. “I heard on the news this morning. You are a private detective.”

“But working with the police, Mrs. Fowler,” Shayne said.

“See, Alfred?” said Martha. She sat stiffly erect in minor triumph. “You and your Chief Gentry, humph! Whatever makes you think you can pick up the phone and talk to the chief of police whenever you want to!”

“Chief Gentry got Mr. Fowler’s message,” Shayne said. “I’m here on Chief Genry’s behalf.”

“Oh?” She seemed to contemplate, then she said, “Are you really a private detective, Mr. Shayne? I thought… I thought…” She fidgeted, then blurted. “Well, I’ve never been sure real private detectives exist!”

“Martha watches a lot of television,” put in Alfred Fowler. “She especially likes private detective shows.”

“Tell me about this cadaver you think you saw last night, Mr. Fowler. Where did you see it, what time?”

A tiny chink in a giant puzzle fell into place. Maybe. The street the Fowlers had been attempting to cross at the time Alfred Fowler saw his cadaver was the same street that fronted the Purple Duck where Shayne and Lucy had dined.

The club was far across the city, but the chauffeur for a stiff could have been cruising, looking for a disposal point. And the time fit. Martha Fowler was trying to get home to catch the beginning of a nine o’clock television program. Twenty minutes by auto from this area to the Purple Duck? No sweat.

What could the Fowlers tell the detective about the driver of the car?

Well… nothing really. Alfred Fowler hadn’t looked at the driver. He’d been too fascinated by his discovery of the corpse.

How about a license number?

Ah… no. Alfred Fowler hadn’t caught it, and Martha Fowler couldn’t see it. Martha Fowler’s vision wasn’t what it used to be.

“What kind of a car was it?” Shayne pressed.

“Old. Dark on the bottom, light on top. Just an old car,” Alfred Fowler answered vaguely.

“Do you know the make?”

Neither of the Fowlers knew. “I don’t keep up with car designs anymore,” said Alfred Fowler. “Can’t; they all look alike to me.”

Shayne felt as if he was very close yet very far away from something tangible in the Littrel boy’s death.

“There was the cadaver and the driver, that’s all?” he pressed. “You didn’t see anyone in the back seat of the car?”

“No one was in the back sea,” said Alfred Fowler emphatically.

“There was that windshield, Alfred,” Martha put in.

“What about it, Mrs. Fowler?” Shayne said, instantly alert.

“It was cracked. It was like maybe… maybe a rock had hit it. It was sorta… sorta spider webby on the passenger side. Maybe that’s a clue. Is it, Mr. Shayne?”

“It could be, Mrs. Fowler,” the detective said, nodding reflexively from deep thought.

Outside the Fowler house, Shayne sat behind the steering wheel of the Buick and stared without seeing. What had he gained?

From what he had learned from the Fowlers, there was no real tie, nothing that said concretely the cadaver — if there had been a cadaver — Fowler claimed to have seen was Tony Littrel.

Shayne slammed the steering wheel. The contradiction of the case gnawed him. On the one hand, the kidnapings had been timed. They’d been pulled off one, two, three, four. That took long observation. That smelled of someone who was thorough, patient. And the pickups had been precisioned.

On the other hand, there was the brazenness: possibly a body being hauled like a passenger in the front seat of a car, certainly the dumping of the body in the openness of a club parking lot at an early evening hour, certainly the delivery of a ransom demand, then the telephoning of a newspaper reporter.

It almost was like someone was secretly laughing at the police.

Shayne lit a cigarette, drew smoke deep. Had they missed a clue in the individual pickup of the kids? He mentally reviewed the rest of the information Andretti had given him.

It appeared as if Lisa English had been the first to be snatched by the kidnapers. Lisa was a girl of order. Tuesdays were library days. Every Tuesday morning, while walking to Urbandale High School, Lisa returned books to the Urban-dale Public Library. After school, on Tuesdays, Lisa returned to the library where she normally spent an hour to an hour-and-a-half.

Then she walked the seven blocks to her home, usually arriving between five-fifteen and five-forty-five p.m. She had been in the library Tuesday; she had not arrived at her home. Her checked out books had been found scattered on an intersection sidewalk two blocks from the library.

Tony Littrel may have been kidnaped next. Andretti had said it was his routine to ride his motorcycle from Kennedy High School to the recreation center every Tuesday where he was on a handball court until six. He normally went from the center to his home. He had been on the court this Tuesday, had not arrived home, and his cycle had been found at the recreation center.

Jack Caulkins, a student at Miami High School, had three interests — gymnastics, physical fitness and chess — and one passionate dislike; his second father, Jason Bundy, a young lawyer on the city attorney’s staff.

Jack Caulkins’ mother had divorced, remarried too quickly for the boy. Jack had retaliated by being argumentative, disobedient, antagonistic at home, and by seeking comfort and understanding with Randolph Parker, a retired Miami High School instructor and chess friend.

The boy and widower played chess at Parker’s small home every school day evening from five to eight o’clock. The cutoff hour was at Parker’s insistence. He also was using the three-hour, five-day-a-week period for subtle counseling, attempting to ease the boy into acceptance of a new man in the parental home.

Caulkins had left Parker at exactly eight o’clock Tuesday evening. Parker had stood in the doorway of the house and had watched the boy jog away.

Chris Jacobson had been rapped early in life too. Her father had been killed in Vietnam. But mother and daughter had been able to regroup, had found surprising sturdiness inborn in each other. The same persistence carried over to physical well-being. Mother and daughter didn’t need health problems. So they were bicyclists. Cycling helped keep them in good physical condition. And it was their habit to cycle nightly in Herman Park.

Except on Tuesdays. On Tuesdays, Chris came home from Tom Browne High School and prepared a light lunch so that it was ready with her mother’s arrival from daily chores at the mayor’s office at six. At seven Barbara Jacobson was off to join her bowling team. At eight Chris was alone on her bicycle in Herman Park.

After Lisa English and Tony Littrel, the kidnapers could have picked up Jack Caulkins and then Chris Jacobson, or Chris Jacobson and then Jack Caulkins. Order was not important…

Shayne moved the Buick away from the Fowler home. He drove too fast down the quiet street, cut across on a sidestreet and found an access road to the South Dixie Highway. He rolled along Dixie, heading toward the Orange Bowl Stadium.

He needed a lead, somebody tangible to chew on. He needed a common bond, something that would point. But all he had was four high school students, each in his or her teens. Okay, teens, students. Common bond. Then what? No two of them attended the same high school; their likes and dislikes were miles apart.

But…

Each was a creature of habit. In one way or another. At least on Tuesdays. Each had a rather set routine on Tuesdays. So it had allowed timing for kidnapers, someone with a keen eye.

Someone had pieced the routines, fitted the comings and goings to form a schedule. The habits, the routines, leant themselves to a timetable for snatching. The subjects were vulnerable.

Schedule. A common bond.

Another bond?

Each was the son or daughter of a city employee.

But that could figure. If you were going to demand a million dollars ransom from a city, and tell the mayor he was to make delivery of the city money, you wouldn’t kidnap just any four kids leaning against street lamps. You’d attempt to get close to the mayor, you’d grab offspring of public or semipublic personalities, kids who would get news print on Page One — against those who might draw Page Twelve.

Figure?

Yeah, figured.

Shayne wheeled into the parking lot at police headquarters, found an empty slot. He wanted to read the official report on the death of Tony Littrel. Perhaps the report would turn up some kind of lead. He didn’t expect much.

On a guess, he figured the kid had died from a bash on the skull with a gun butt. But the boy’s clothing might have produced telltale grains of dirt, lint. Pinpoints of plaster or brick might have been caught in his hair, under his fingernails. Any or all could produce a lead to a possible death site.

Inside, Shayne shoved his hat to the back of his head and marched on determined strides into the detective room. No one paid any particular attention to him until he was weaving through the clutter of desks used by the detectives. One looked up and said, “Hey, the lost has returned.”

Another said, “Hi yuh, Shayne. Go on in. The Chief is waiting for you.”

Shayne stopped and scowled. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, he wants you now, man!” Flannigan shook his head. “He’s climbing walls.”

Shayne entered Gentry’s private office. Gentry was at an open filing cabinet, stuffing a folder into a drawer. He looked at Shayne over his shoulder. A black cigar butt tilted up from the corner of his mouth, and his expression was sour.

“Anything from the Fowlers?”

“No. What’s got you excited? I got the impression from Flannigan you’ve been looking for me.”

“The mayor told me he and Judge Littrel had hired you. Well, we’ve got a present for you, Mike,” Gentry said flatly. “It’s in the morgue. Another dead kid. And this one was addressed to you.”

VIII

The body had been brought to police headquarters in the back end of a truck owned by a furniture store. Two confused and frightened delivery men were being interrogated by Homicide.

“These guys say they delivered a television set to a residence this morning, then stopped at a cafe out in the Hialeah area,” said Gentry. “They were empty, they claim, but when they came out of the joint, they found a rear door of their truck open and Jack Caulkins’ body inside.

“The boy was carrying a wallet, Mike. He also had a used business envelope stuffed in his shirt front. Printed on it was ‘Deliver to Mike Shayne, detective’. The message was printed in pencil, same block letters as in the ransom demand.”

“How was he killed, Will?”

Gentry’s face darkened. “Preliminary makes it an odd one. The boy is crushed inside. Doc says he probably is just one big scramble, bone and innards. Feet, legs and pelvic area shattered. Doc is figuring he fell a long distance, probably hit ground on his feet.”

“Sounds as if he was pitched or pushed.”

“If either, he was riding the small end of the percentages. The chances of him landing on his feet would be damn thin.”

Shayne stroked the reddish stubble along his jawline. His eyes were narrow and hard in deep thought. “The message. How come I’m singled out? Because my name is in the news this morning?”

“Could be,” Gentry said slowly. “Or it could be the kidnapers want to be caught.”

“That kind of stuff is for the shrinks, Will! If you really think that, get the docs in here! You don’t need me! Anyway, if I’m picked because they heard my name on the radio, television, they also know I’m not a cop.

“Maybe they know I’m on the case, but Will, I’m riding a different horse. I figure we just caught another taunt, somebody throwing all of this in our face and then sitting back and chuckling.

“The guy may be a shrink candidate, but he’s dangerous too — and he’s got at least one partner. There’s somebody in their camp who’s straight. He’s probably the planner, the kidnapings may be his baby. He may have laid it all out, then lost control of one or more of his troops. It’s the contradiction that stinks.”

“Uh-huh,” said Gentry. He fired a cigar butt into a waste basket, yanked open a desk drawer, got out another butt, jammed it into a corner of his mouth. He sat for a moment in silence, then leaned forward, jerked the cigar butt from his lips and stabbed it at Shayne.

“Do you realize, that we have lost two of four kidnaped kids — and it’s four hours yet to payoff time! What the hell, don’t they want the money? That’s what makes me think we’re dealing with screwballs!”

“We don’t know the circumstances, Will,” Shayne said, struggling for logic. “The Littrel boy could have resisted being snatched. The Caulkins kid might have tried some kind of escape. Hell, if it’s…”

Shayne steeled himself against the other thought, then added, “Will, if it’s a wanton, methodical killing of the kids, we might as well sit here with our feet on the desk and accept the bodies as they are brought in! We’re already whipped. They’ve got the kids, and we don’t know where!”

“But maybe we’ve got a smell,” Gentry said savagely, smacking the desk top. He stood.

Shayne lifted shaggy eyebrows. “You’ve got a lead?”

“We’ve got a citizen. A deaf mute, but he’s a start. Sturgis is with him now. Name is Flato. He’s got a room in a building across the street from the cafe where the delivery boys picked up their body.

“He claims he saw the transfer of a body from a car to the truck. He couldn’t call us because he doesn’t have a phone and he’s a mute. By the time he got down to the street and found a friend to relay the message, the scene was clear: car and guy gone, delivery boys headed this way with their cargo.

“I’ve got an APB out on the car and the driver. Not much but it’s a jumping off place. Chev., Plymouth or Pontiac, a sedan, anywhere from ’67 to ’70, blue bottom, white top. The blue is faded, and the top spotted, probably from rust drops.

“It’s a four door model with a cracked windshield, splayed on the passenger side. The driver was a loner, twenty-five to thirty years old with long dirty-blonde hair to shoulders, and a hawk nose, He wore faded denim jacket, open down front, orange and purple underneath, probably a tank shirt, denim pants, also faded, open sandals, floppy hat. Flato didn’t get a good look at the guy’s face.”

“And no license number?”

“Angle was wrong, Flato says. He couldn’t see the plate.”

“The car the Fowlers saw, Will, also had a broken windshield,” Shayne said from deep thought, “and was light-colored on top, dark on the bottom. It could be the same car. Neither kid was killed where he was found; each was delivered.”

The phone on Gentry’s desk jangled. He said, “Yeah?” into the mouthpiece, then listened intently for a long time. When he put the phone together, he stared hard at Shayne.

“That was Doc again. He’s found a couple of interesting things on the Caulkins boy. Rope burns on the palms of his hands, and rope fibers imbedded in his clothing, traces of a musty, fishy odor about him. Doc’s speculating the kid may have been aboard a boat very recently.”

Shayne grunted. “Not a bad place to hide someone,” he said. “At sea, waiting for the time of ransom delivery in the park. Maybe these people are figuring on cutting by sea too.”

“I’ll alert the Coast Guard, send teams of my people down to the marinas and clubs, all of the dock areas.”

Shayne glanced at his watch. “You’ve talked with the mayor, how’s he doing? Is he getting the money? Or did he say?”

Gentry looked mildly surprised. “Yeah, he’s got it lined up,” he said. “It’s being hauled to his office from several sources. I’ve got men all over the place down there. So?”

Shayne pulled his ear lobe. “So I’m going out and have a couple of drinks — and then I’m going to take a walk with the mayor in Flamingo Park!”

“You are like hell!” Gentry snarled.

“Will, cool down and take a second look at this payoff setup,” Shayne said patiently. “They want the mayor to be in the park at four o’clock with the money, but no other instructions are received. Okay, the mayor is to walk, that’s all.

“So it could mean a running ripoff, or it could mean someone will meet him on the sidewalk, bring a gun out of nowhere, kill him and bolt with the dough. Or maybe he’s going to be taken hostage, someone sticks a gun in his ear and marches him away — keeping cops at a distance.

“These characters can ripoff, kill or take two people hostage, Will. Damnit, they kidnaped four kids when one would have accomplished the same result! You figure they’re going to get choosy about numbers now? They won’t object to my presence. And the mayor did hire me.”

Gentry stared for a long time in silence before he said, “Get the hell out of here. Let me think about it.”

Shayne walked out of police headquarters. His steps were long, he planted his feet hard. He knew Gentry already had accepted his plan. The police habit of cooperating in a kidnap case was strong. But for some crazy damn reason he didn’t understand, he found himself suddenly remembering the quivering Tuesday noon bank robber he had captured. The novice.

Shayne growled in the bright sunlight as he turned into the parking lot. Novices. Trouble. Dangerous. Especially if they had guts. The Tuesday noon bank robber had been riding sheer desperation. He, basically, had been a frightened man. He had no real guts.

The Tuesday afternoon kidnapers? Novices maybe. But look what they had pulled so far. The Tuesday afternoon kidnapers had guts.

They could be big trouble in Flamingo Park.

IX

Will Gentry was with the mayor when Mike Shayne arrived. A new brown suitcase was on the carpeting beside the mayor’s desk. The mayor looked like he’d just lost an election. Gentry was grim.

Shayne put a hip on a corner of the polished desk, lit a cigarette. Streaming smoke through his nostrils, he said, “Got the loot?”

“At your feet,” Gentry said flatly.

Shayne kicked the suitcase, smoked.

Gentry took the cigar butt from his mouth, looked the detective straight in the eye. “These characters said they want the mayor, Mike. If he goes into Flamingo with an escort, they may not move. And if they don’t move, we could have two dead girls on our hands.”

Gentry jammed the cigar butt back into the corner of his mouth. His eyes didn’t waver. “I think the mayor should go in solo. He says he can do it, and I’ve got the park blanketed like the President was going to show. But it’s up to him — and you. We’ll do what you want.”

Shayne’s ashes fell to the rich-looking carpeting. He ignored the spill. “They’re going to swoop, Will. Whether the mayor’s alone, or with an escort, they’ll swoop. When they see the suitcase, they’ll come in. If they’d asked for a couple of thousand, five or ten grand, and we didn’t follow their instructions to the nut, I’d buy your thinking. But with a million at stake… Hell, they’ll dive like vultures!”

Gentry’s face darkened. He began to pace. He remained silent.

“Chi-ef?” The tremor seemed to surprise the mayor. He cleared his throat. “I’m nervous… yes, even frightened. My self-preservation instinct, I suppose. But I’ll go to the park alone, as I told you earlier. Still, Mr. Shayne’s argument deserves weighing. I’m inclined to agree with him.

“I have no idea how I will be met, but I think the amount of money involved will be a tremendous attraction. Perhaps my appearance in the company of Mr. Shayne will alter the plan of the kidnapers slightly, but there remains the lure of one million dollars in cash. I, too, think these people will strike in spite of the presence of Mr. Shayne.”

“What bothers the hell out of me, Will,” Shayne took up, “is how they’re going to hit.”

“I can tell you one thing to look for,” Gentry said sourly. “A guy in a floppy hat. We finally got a call from a citizen. Just this afternoon. From what she told us, I think she saw the Jacobson girl yanked from the bike in Herman Park last night.”

“Well, it’s about time somebody saw something,” Shayne said. “Four daylight kidnapings and no one comes forward. I was beginning to think the world had gone blind.”

“Our citizen says she was peddling in Herman last evening, too, says she saw a white panel truck, but from a long distance away. Says she saw this truck stop on one of the park roads, saw a guy get out of the truck, flag down a girl cyclist. Says the guy was wearing a floppy hat, she was too far away to see more, but she remembers the hat. It must be real floppy.

“Anyway, she says she saw the guy and the girl wrestle a bit, then the girl was forced into the back of the truck. The witness says she was curious but she didn’t want to get involved. So she peddled home — fast. Then this afternoon she heard on the radio about the kidnapings and she called us finally. How’s that for a cooperative citizen? Beautiful, huh?”

Shayne ignored the Chiefs sarcasm. “White truck, floppy hat,” he said from deep thought. “The deafmute spotted a floppy hat this morning too.”

“Yeah,” nodded Gentry. “Could’ve been the same guy.”

“I’ll keep a sharp eye,” Shayne promised.

“Concentrate on the hat. I think we’ve got the truck down at the pound. We had one go on the hotsheet about mid-afternoon yesterday. A couple of alert car boys spotted it this morning in a supermarket parking lot. The kidnapers could’ve picked it off the street yesterday, used it to haul the kids, dumped it last night. The boys have gone over the truck once, didn’t come up with any tie, but I’ve got a helluva strong hunch about those wheels.”

Shayne nodded, looked at the ashtray the mayor had produced from a desk drawer. He stood, butted the cigarette.

“I think we should be going, Mr. Shayne,” the mayor said, his voice taut. “It will be almost four o’clock by the time we reach Flamingo Park.”

When they got there the park had a quiescent air about it that brilliant Wednesday afternoon. There were sun toilers and there were strollers. A busy avenue was off in the distance. Vehicles darted to and fro along the avenue like busy bugs. But the sound of motors, tires and rusted out mufflers did not reach this deep into the park.

Shayne walked loosely, head and shoulders above the mayor. He carried the million dollar suitcase in his large left hand. His coat was open, right hand free for quick movement to the .45 in the shoulder holster.

Outwardly, he looked like any man cutting through the park with a companion, heading for a distant hotel. They could have been two businessmen who had just arrived in the city and who had decided against a cab in favor of walking on a fresh afternoon.

Inwardly, the redhead was keyed, all of his senses tuned. His nerve ends were alert, his muscles flexible. And his hard gray eyes never were still. They searched the park and surrounding area, soaking up and inventorying shadows, glints, benches, people, anything that moved, anything that was still. He listened hard for the sound of swift moving feet, walking or running.

He had no idea what to expect. This could be a straight ripoff, someone pounding up to them suddenly, ripping the suitcase from his hand, then making a dash for a waiting car somewhere in the park.

Or there could be rifle shots from anywhere, with a second party snatching the suitcase as two men lay dead or bleeding to death on the park walk.

It might be another snatch. This time out in the open. Brazen. The kidnapers — he had no idea how many to expect — could swoop in on them, threaten with guns, take them hostage, laugh at the disguised cops who had to be everywhere in the park.

And there was always the possibility the park meet was a ruse, designed only to get the mayor into the open with the money in hand. The kidnapers had to be smart enough to know there would be cops around. Perhaps their scheme was to let those in the park fidget, worry and sweat. The mayor would break eventually, become confused, agitated, perplexed. In one form or another, he’d move. He’d fold, thus drawing the cops to him.

Or he’d finally leave the park, drawing the cops after him. Either way, any kidnapers with sharp eyes would get a smell of where the mayor’s protection was, the odds against them. But more important, by allowing the mayor to give way under the tension, they would draw that protection into a smaller circle, a cluster they might be able to penetrate or surround without worry about their own backsides.

The mayor said, “We’re almost… halfway through the park, Mr. Shayne.”

“Just keep walking easy. It’s a helluva beautiful afternoon.”

Shayne caught a glisten in the corner of his eye. He felt as if he should belt the mayor to the grass, duck. But he steeled his muscles, stopped, put the suitcase on the walk.

“What are you doing?” cried the mayor.

The redhead already was lighting the cigarette, cupping the match against the end. He was turned slightly, as if guarding the flame against the breeze, but his eyes were searching far off to their left. The eyes roamed the fourth and fifth floor apartment balconies. He felt terribly exposed.

“I’ve got a feeling we’re being watched.”

X

There were people here and there on the balconies. Most were seated, holding up books, magazines, newspapers. One or two lifted a glass. A man stood alone against the railing of a balcony at just the right spot. Mike Shayne was positive the glint had come from the man who seemed to be staring into the park.

The man lifted what had to be a metal-coated pewter container to his mouth, drank. Sunshine glistened from the pewter.

Shayne sucked smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled. He picked up the suitcase and moved on.

“Did you see something suspicious?” the mayor asked Shayne.

The redhead fired the fresh cigarette into the grass, kept moving. He surveyed a young man and a young girl on a blanket off to their right. There was a large hat on the blanket beside the young man’s right leg. The young man was kissing the young girl.

“All I see,” said Shayne, “is comfortable people.”

He kept the couple in the corner of his eye for as long as he could, moved on a few more yards, then glanced over his shoulder. The couple was standing, had moved off the blanket. The guy was folding the blanket. The young woman had the floppy hat clapped on her head. It was a man’s hat, but on her head it looked quite feminine — in a modish sort of way. It fitted her spangled pullover half blouse, the tight, bright yellow hot pants.

The couple walked off in the opposite direction, keeping the green grass instead of concrete under their bare feet.

They could be friends, lovers or kidnapers, who were surveying. Or they could be police.

The guy moving along the walk toward Shayne and the mayor from their rear had appeared out of nowhere. When Shayne had stopped to light the cigarette and survey the apartment building, the walk had been clear. Now there was a tall thin man hustling their way. He wore faded jeans and a black and white checkered shirt. He had long unkempt hair and a drooping mustache.

He moved fast, as if with intent purpose. His face muscles were drawn, his mouth tight. He didn’t look to the right or left. If he was carrying a gun, it had to be a small weapon, possibly a derringer, in his rear pocket.

Or he might be a knife man.

Shayne moved along with the mayor, keeping a steady pace that was slower than that of the man who now was moving in behind them swiftly. Shayne’s ears charted the scrape and click of heels against cement. Mentally, he plotted the man’s closing of the distance that separated them.

Where had the guy come from? A bench? A grassy bed? Shayne searched his memory as he brought his right hand up to allow fingers to scratch his shirt front. Those fingers were just inches from the .45 in the shoulder rig. He could have the gun out in a flash, trigger a shot.

The thin guy passed them, moved out. Whatever his goal he was in a hurry to get to it.

“Mr. Shayne,” the mayor said, “we are almost through the park.”

They were approaching a curving park road that emptied into a busy street. They passed a Latin who wore the green coverall uniform of a park attendant. The Latin was using a long stick with a sharp end to stab litter that had been scattered around a park bench. He put the speared litter into a shoulder pouch. His movements were slow. Anyone who noticed him at all had to know he was merely waiting for four-thirty quitting time.

Shayne figured the Latin was one of Gentry’s cops.

“Mr. Shayne?”

“This is only one area of the park, Mayor,” the redhead said in a gruff voice. “We swing over to the other side from here.”

There was an ancient maroon sedan braked at the beginning of the curve in the road up ahead. The hood of the sedan was up and a guy was bent over the radiator, looking deep into the well that housed the car motor. On the sidewalk, moving around idly with a bag of popcorn in hand, was a girl who was large in chest, abundant in hip and long in leg.

Dancer’s legs, Shayne thought.

The thin guy who was moving along at a fast clip was forced to do a little dance around the girl. And then he was out to the sidewalk along the avenue and moving out, maintaining the swift pace.

The girl watched him, a hand reflexively feeding popcorn to her mouth. She was three-quarters turned from the detective. She looked over to the maroon sedan suddenly. “How you-all doin’, Burt? Find the trouble?”

“In a minute, cat,” said the guy without taking his head or hands from the interior of the motor well.

The girl had yellow hair that dangled straight and halfway down her spine. She wore a loose pink pullover top, short brown skirt and gold-brown clogs that bunched the muscles of her bare calves and made her seem two inches taller than her real height. Hooked from a shoulder was a large bag that was half-moon shaped and probably once had been a deep brown. Today it was sun bleached and showed scars.

She paid no attention to the approaching detective and mayor as she propped the popcorn sack on the edge of a swing lid litter container and dipped a hand deep into the brown bag.

Shayne’s hand moved again to his chest, but the girl withdrew a single cigarillo. She put it dead center in her lips, then searched the bag again. She brought out a packet of matches, lit the cigarillo.

“This way, mayor,” Shayne said, abruptly cutting across grass in a path that would take them behind the maroon sedan. “We’ll go back down the other side of the park, see how business is over there.”

He’d taken in the windshield of the sedan. It was unshattered. Anyway, the car he was interested in had a white top with rust spots, according to the deaf-mute witness.

The mayor yelped suddenly, froze, disappeared from the corner of the detective’s eye as if wiped out.

Shayne hadn’t heard a sound. He whirled around, hand going inside his coat. Fingers gripped the butt of the .45 and then the girl said, “Freeze!”

She stood behind the mayor, a gun muzzle jammed against the nape of the mayor’s neck. She stood slightly spread-legged, solid, unmoving. Her gray-green eyes held the detective.

“If that’s heat you’ve got under that coat, buster,” the girl said, voice brittle, “forget it, or His Honor is dead.”

XI

Mike Shayne didn’t move or speak. He saw the man come around the car. The man was swarthy, had a mean face and a lightweight body. He was hood. He looked hood, he smelled hood.

“Let’s go, baby!” he snapped.

Shayne saw more movement. It was inside the maroon sedan. Two heads popped up from the back seat and appeared in the rear window. One of the heads was framed in a floppy hat. The face inside the frame was young, grinning. The other guy looked worried, almost frightened.

“Move,” snarled the girl. “Into the heap. Steve-baby, the redhead is wearin’ heat.”

The hood stepped forward, whipped a short chopping blow into Shayne’s middle, and snaked the .45 from the shoulder rig. Then he took the suitcase and laughed.

The girl suddenly laughed with him. “How many more of you guys around the park, Red? The entire police force?”

Floppy Hat and the nervous man got into the front seat, the nervous man taking the wheel. The swarthy man got in beside them, Shayne’s gun still in hand. He hefted the .45, snorted. “Big heat. That makes for a big man. You know that, Varga?” The swarthy man snapped an expletive opinion.

“Get that thing out of sight!” rasped the nervous man.

The swarthy man hefted the gun again. “Tool,” he growled. “That’s all you gotta do. Who gives a razz about bulls now? You said it yourself, Varga: No bulls charge while we’ve got a gun stuck in the mayor’s ear. Out of all your figurin’ in this thing, I like this part the best. I gotta hand you this one. It’s neat, makes us top drawer all of a sudden. Who’s gonna attack?”

Between the two men, Floppy Hat laughed suddenly. “How ’bout saving the jive till later, cats? Let’s split. I’m cramped.” He attempted to turn and look into the back seat as the man named Varga moved the sedan into the avenue traffic, then gave up. “Who’s the creep, Iris?” he asked.

“Fuzz.”

Floppy Hat shook his head. “I don’t think so. His armpits don’t smell right — and believe me, baby-doll, I know fuzzy armpits. Two months in Gentryville and the stink sticks, yuh know?”

Shayne was jammed into a corner of the back seat, the mayor beside him. Iris was on the mayor’s right, keeping the gun muzzle against the mayor’s neck. She stared across the mayor’s front at the detective.

“Let’s see your tickets, Red,” she said in the brittle voice. “Artist says you ain’t a cop.”

The girl’s gun wrist was less than an arm length away. A quick move, grasp, a snapping twist of her arm…

Shayne put down the thought. The mayor would die. The girl’s finger movement would be just that fatal fraction of a second faster than his arm.

His eyes unwavering against the stare of the girl, Shayne slowly took out his wallet and flipped it open to the identification cards.

She grunted. “Be damned. Artist, those two months you was drawin’ pictures for the cops wasn’t all bustville. You developed a good smeller. Man, this is gonna space you out. We got us a creep named Michael Shayne. Familiar?”

Artist laughed again. “The private fuzz. Ya-hoo!”

Varga turned the sedan from the busy avenue into a quieter cross street. “For Christ’s sake, will somebody take a look behind us?”

“Easy, honey,” Iris said. “No sweat. We’ve got tails, but we figured that. It’s what we want, remember? We get to the factory and they’re our meat.”

Shayne’s mind was working fast, soaking up names and connections, and it was obvious that as long as they held a gun against the mayor’s throat, these people felt confident, weren’t worrying about cops. They wanted cops, the girl called Iris had said. Why?

Shayne scowled as he stared straight ahead, his eyes riveted on the driver’s neck, a man named Varga. Varga was flinchy, and the swarthy guy had intimated all of this was Varga’s operation. Somehow, that didn’t fit. A leader was supposed to be cool. This one wasn’t, he was the goosiest of the bunch. Floppy Hat, Artist, had the cool, the swarthy man was savage and Iris was brittle. None of them fit, that was the kicker. They weren’t a unit, an organization, a gang. They were entities eons apart — and yet here they were jammed together in a plot of kidnapings and killings.

Shayne growled. They were amateurs, novices. But very damned dangerous.

“You got a problem, Red?” Iris’ laugh was a cackle as the detective flashed a look at her.

Between them, the mayor sat stiff and ashen, and he breathed fast and hard.

In the front seat, Artist laughed. “All the world is a problem, baby-doll. Ain’t you heard? Everywhere you look, problems. Everybody’s got a problem. All the cats, all—”

“Shut up, kid,” snarled the swarthy man.

Artist looked at him, silent for a moment. Then he laughed again and bent forward slightly and used fingernails to drum a little tune against the suitcase that stood on end between the swarthy man’s legs.

“But we got us a solution, huh, Pope? All that bread!”

“When we get to Mexico, kid,” Pope snapped. “When!”

“Ain’t that gonna be tonight?” Artist said, mocking surprise, taunting.

“Kid…” Pope growled in warning. He lifted an elbow high as if prepared to slash.

“Quit it!” Varga bleated. His voice skittered upward and he hunched another couple of inches forward over the steering wheel. “The both of you, quit it! Don’t you realize—”

“All of you shut up!” Iris said flatly without moving an inch. “Everything’s clicking. We’ve got the mayor, and we’ve got the green. The plane’s next. We’re moving. Let’s keep moving.”

They suddenly moved into an alley. Varga made the tires of the maroon sedan squeal and then they bounced into the alley and swung in behind an abandoned factory building. Vargo nosed the sedan into a long loading dock, rocked to a stop.

Shayne saw the blue and white car to his left. It looked five to six years old. It had a blue bottom and a white top. The windshield on the passenger side was shattered.

“Okay, out, fellas,” Iris snapped. “This way.”

She backed outside, moved away a couple of paces, held the gun muzzle steady on the mayor as he unfolded from the car. Shayne followed the mayor slowly, giving the police a couple more seconds to move in. He heard noises from down the alley, saw a shadow at the building corner.

Iris wiggled the gun. “Up on the dock, then inside.”

The mayor had trouble navigating the height. He balanced for a moment on the dock’s edge, his palms and one knee his only brace. Shayne shoved his buttocks, rolled him onto the dock platform, then leaped up, bent and caught the mayor’s hand, yanked him to his feet.

Varga had already disappeared inside. Artist and Pope stood in an entry, looking out. Pope had shielded his body with a wall, held Shayne’s .45 in sight. But Artist stood in full view, brazen, taunting, laughing softly.

Shayne knew Artist was a perfect target for police weapons. But no one triggered a shot. No one wanted to be responsible for the mayor’s death. Artist also knew he was safe. His laughter took on tempo.

Iris was on the platform. She had hoisted herself up on her buttocks. She swung the dancer’s legs up and then stood. Her face was blank as she wiggled the gun again. “Inside.”

They climbed four flights of wide, littered cement stairs. The fourth floor was cavernous, one room with narrow windows spaced evenly across the front and two ends of the building. The black wall was brick and blank except for a large, black square hole.

Shayne recognized the hole. Freight elevator doors were open, out of sight inside the brick walls. He saw nothing beyond the black gap. He knew it was open space, probably four flights of free fall.

Pope was at one of the narrow front wall windows. He had put down the suitcase, and now he stood with the wall between his body and the outside, but he was risking glances out of the window.

“The street is crawling with cops!” he rasped.

“It’s what we want, man!” said Artist. He laughed, went to another window, stood in full view as he looked out. Then he twisted his head, still grinning, and said to Iris, “Show ’em the mayor, cat — before I get shot.”

She moved the mayor to a window, forced him to stand looking out.

For a flicker of a second, Shayne tensed to dive. He figured he could slash the girl from the side before she could get the gun around, knock her sprawling. She could lose the gun in the spill. But even if she didn’t, he’d be on her with a pounce, wrench the gun from her hand, roll and cut down Pope.

But Pope was turned from the window now, the .45 held steady on the detective’s middle, his face screwed down, the mouth tight, the eyes blank and hard.

Shayne didn’t move a muscle.

“Donald-baby,” said Iris in a flat tone. “Tell ’em what we want.”

Varga skittered to a deep wall-floor shadow and brought up a bullhorn. He seemed to stand in indecision for a moment, and then he went to one of the windows and smashed the horn against the glass, making an opening. He attempted to say something through the horn, but his voice broke.

Artist yanked the horn from his hands. He stood at the opening. “You have one hour,” he said in the horn. “We want a plane, a six-passenger at International. And have it gassed and ready to go. No bargains. Plane, one hour — or the mayor is dead!”

He threw the horn across the vast room. It clattered and scraped across concrete for a few seconds and then there was silence. He looked around. No one said anything.

Abruptly, Artist laughed. “Well, did I do okay? It’s what we want, isn’t it? Varga-baby is gonna fly us to Mexico, isn’t he?”

Varga and Iris remained silent. Pope said, “You did good, kid.”

Shayne analyzed. He had it now. Varga probably was a licensed, small craft pilot. They figured on flying across the Gulf, putting down in Mexico, probably on some deserted strip, splitting the loot and scattering.

None of these people were going to stick together. Varga and Iris maybe. For a short time, until she got her hooks into his share of the take. Then she’d cut on her own. Artist and Pope would be long gone, of course. In separate directions. Unless Pope… Pope was the truly dangerous one of the four. He was a tough. A hood, a punk. Until now, he probably had been a gas station stickup gnat, maybe a liquor store here and there. A loner. Self-styled. But a nickel and dimer all the way. No big scores until Varga had come along with a million dollar caper.

Varga was difficult to figure. Raw amateur. He was far out of his realm. Too far. But he was there. The drive was a mystery. Varga, basically, was straight, should be a nine-to-fiver. With or without an Iris.

On the other hand, he was the schemer. The kidnapings, the demand, the escape all belonged to Varga. Without him, Iris, Pope, Artist — had this kid truly once been on the city payroll as an artist in the police department? — would still be doing their things for pennies.

“M-Mr. Shayne?”

The mayor had a frog in his throat, a gun muzzle pressed against the outside. Shayne knew that every time the mayor sucked a breath he figured it might be his last.

He also knew the mayor was not going to be killed here. That was to come later. Along with his own death. They could be dumped from an aircraft into the Gulf of Mexico, or they could be shot down on desolate Mexican soil. Either way, they were to die.

Like the four kids? The police had two bodies. But where were the girls? He had expected to see them trussed and terrified in some corner of this floor. But there was nothing. Only vast space, concrete and dusky shadows.

Shayne said, “Maybe you won’t get a plane.” He looked straight at Pope as he spoke.

The hood lifted the .45 slightly, tensed. But it was Iris who wavered. She turned slightly from the mayor. The movement took the gun muzzle from the mayor’s throat. Shayne leaped.

The detective took two huge steps toward Iris and launched himself into a flat, swimmer’s racing dive. Sound numbed his eardrums, crashed around him. Something tugged lightly across his shoulder blades.

In that fraction of a second he knew Pope had triggered a shot from the .45 and that the slug had ripped a path across his coat. The sound was too loud for the gun Iris held.

His outstretched hands rammed the girl’s middle. She yelped. Another slug ricocheted off the concrete floor under Shayne just an instant before he landed flat and skidded. He rolled, pulled his legs up, came up on his knees.

Iris was off to his left now. She had crashed into a wall, was sinking to the floor. The .32 was gone from her hand. He saw it on the floor, but there was no chance in hell he’d reach it before Pope filled him with bullet holes.

He whirled on his knees as Pope fired another shot. The slug took the detective’s hat off. Shayne leaped to his feet, dodged to the left, then to the right, crouched, ran straight toward Pope who was bringing the .45 down level again.

The mayor yelled. He took a couple of steps, stopped, threw his hands high as Pope spun. Pope triggered another shot. The mayor squealed and went into a crazy spin, legs buckling quickly. He went down to the floor and writhed, groaning.

Shayne saw blood spreading from the mayor as he launched a long looping blow with his right arm. His fist crashed against Pope’s ear and sent Pope reeling away. Pope went off balance down the length of the vast room, but he didn’t go to his knees, and he didn’t lose the .45.

He finally caught himself, whirled and fired a wild shot. Shayne already was moving, diving for the gun lost by Iris. She was on her hands and knees, shaking her head groggily as she crawled to the gun.

Shayne leaped over her, caught her with an arm and yanked her against his front as he went down. The slug from the .45 opened her front and spilled a warm liquid on the detective’s arm and hand. He knew Iris had died instantly.

The slight seemed to freeze Pope for an instant, and Shayne used that second to stretch out a long arm and snake in the .32. He triggered a shot, made Pope dance.

Then Pope leaped to Varga, who was cowering against the front wall. He yanked Varga around and used him as a body shield, brought the .45 up.

Shayne fired a shot into the brick above Pope’s head. Pope kept moving forward, the .45 poised. Then Varga broke. He was a terrified man. He shot an elbow into Pope’s middle and bent forward. The move exposed Pope’s face. Shayne fired again. Pope yanked his head, yowled a curse. Shayne saw blood spurt from Pope’s ear.

Varga squirmed, dug deep with his elbows and slashed with his feet. Pope was forced to free him. He gave Varga a violent shove toward the detective as Shayne rolled from the girl and up on his knees again.

He was in front of the open black gap of the elevator shaft. He brought the .32 up, but steeled his trigger finger. Varga was totally exposed, could be cut down in an instant. But Varga also was out of control, reeling, and in no sense an attacker as he plunged forward.

Then there was another crash of sound from the .45 and Varga became spread-eagled in flight, his face muscles caught in surprised horror. A piece of his skull and hair sailed upward from his head as if it were an expertly tossed frisbee seeking a wind updraft.

Varga crashed down on Shayne, spilling the detective. He suddenly was on his back, and he felt terribly exposed again. He arched his head back, brought his arm over his head, the .32 upside down. He had a glimpse of Pope. The .45 was angled down. Shayne fired.

Pope howled and rolled out of sight. Shayne heard the clatter. He kicked and shoved the dead Varga from his body, flipped over to his belly. Pope was doubled, howling and cursing, the .45 gone from his hand. Shayne saw the gun on the floor ten to twelve feet away from Pope.

It was his opportunity. He scrambled to his knees, moving forward at the same time. If he could get to the .45, all of this was finished.

The movement in the corner of his eye made him bring an arm up reflexively. He had forgotten Artist. But the kid was flying in now, lunging toward him. Shayne ducked a shoulder and then brought it up fast. The shoulder plunged into the youth’s middle. He heaved upward.

Artist went over him with a yelp. Shayne whirled on his knee, saw Artist land on his spine and bounce. He skidded into the black wall gap. There was an instant of silence and then a long, terrified scream as Artist plunged down the four floors of open shaft.

Shayne heard Pope scrambling. The odds had evened. He was one and one with the hood now. Actually, he was slightly up. He had the .32 in hand while Pope was diving for the .45.

Shayne came around from the black wall gap, jaw thrust, face muscles ticcing, gray eyes icy. Iris’ blood had slicked his front and left arm.

He wouldn’t kill Pope. He wasn’t a wanton killer. But he might have to shatter an ankle with a slug from the .32. Pope had to be put out of action before he could sweep up the .45 again.

Pope’s lunge surprised the detective. Instead of going for the .45, Pope had launched himself in a dive straight at the .32. His face was contorted, one ear was bloody. His yell was loud, and palms at the end of stiff arms loomed large. Shayne was too late with the .32. He triggered a shot but the slug sailed under the flying Pope.

Then Pope’s palms smashed the detective’s shoulders and Shayne went backward off-balance. He was out of control for just an instant. But that instant was long enough to be fatal. He knew he was going into the black gap. Somewhere he lost the .32. He clawed air reflexively.

And then he was going down, down, down.

XII

The free fall was a strange sensation, and Mike Shayne was surprised that he still had his wits, that thoughts tumbled one after another through his skull. He had thought a man plunging helplessly through black space with no chance for survival might blank out.

The clawing fingers of his right hand hooked into something. His body continued to plunge. And then suddenly there was a tremendous yank against his arm as his feet swung under him. The jerk strained his arm and the hooked fingers, but the realization that he somehow had briefly stopped the free fall flooded him with new strength from an unknown source. He kept the fingers hooked as he yelled against the shots of pain that splayed down the length of his arm and into his massive shoulder.

Abruptly, he was swaying in space. He clung desperately, continued to sway. He wanted to stop the motion of his body, but he had no control as he moved back and forth across the width of the dark shaft. He knew he was hanging by the one hand, that the strength of his arm and the hook of his fingers were his lone salvation.

His body weight pulled at his arm and fingers, and he knew that in another few seconds that weight was to win the tug-of-war with the arm and fingers. But he forced himself to remain calm, wait until the momentum of the swaying diminished.

The pain had moved from his shoulder into his spine now, dancing down his vertebrae like a child punishing stair-steps. He couldn’t hang on with the one hand much longer. The strain was too much.

The arc of his sway had lessened. He lifted his left hand, searching. The fingers found nothing. He ran the fingers along his strained right arm to the wrist, then stretched the fingers. They made contact with something. He tested the texture and knew he had found some kind of rope. He hooked his fingers through holes. Now he dangled from both hands. Guessing, he figured he was clutching heavy netting.

Netting dangling in an empty elevator shaft? He shook his head against the enormity of the probability of survival.

Tentatively, he loosed the fingers of his right hand, relieving the strain against that arm, shifting it to the left. The relief was brief. The fingers of his left hand seemed to be sliding, coming unhooked. It was as if they were greased.

Iris’ blood! It had made the fingers slick! He put all of the weight and strain back on his right arm as he freed his left hand and swiped it across the seat of his trousers. He re-gripped with both hands. The slickness was gone.

He glanced down. His eyes had become adjusted, and instead of blackness there was a shadowed dimness now. He could make out the walls of the shaft and down below there was a square patch of light on concrete. Sprawled in that patch was a body, a floppy hat off to the left.

It was at least three-and-a-half floors down to the dead Artist.

Shayne strained his neck and looked up. He saw another square of light to his right, maybe a half floor up. He knew it was the opening from the fourth floor of the building. He saw Pope framed in that opening.

Pope was on his hands and knees, unmoving, one of the guns gripped in his right hand. Two large, strange looking bulks dangled between the detective and Pope. They were just a few feet above Shayne and they swayed slightly.

He blinked hard against the bulks, his mind working, searching. A possibility flared, and he seemed to find new strength for his arms with the thought. He pulled himself up slightly, searched with his feet. Something dangled against his legs, but escaped his shoes.

He used his right shoe against the heel of his left. The left shoe dropped, clunked far below. He toed off the right shoe, again heard the clunk. He attempted to find a toehold, but couldn’t quite get the grip.

Dangling from his left hand, he used his right to peel off socks and drop them, then his toes hooked into netting and he transferred the tremendous strain from his arms to his powerful legs.

He swayed in the monkey position, remembering the morgue report on the death of the Caulkins boy to Gentry. Rope fibers on young Caulkins clothing. A fishy smell. He could be dangling from a fish net. Above him could be two kidnaped girls jailed in fish nets.

His mind worked. Kidnapings, the victims brought to an empty factory building where stolen fish nets had been rigged in an empty elevator shaft. Put the kids in the nets, shove them out into space where they’d dangle. Kids out of sight. No chance for escape.

Except among young Caulkins’ interests was gymnastics. And he could have been carrying a pocket knife. He could have sliced open the netting, turned to his prowess. He could have attempted to swing himself up into the opening above, missed and plunged to his death.

Shayne used his hands and toes to inch up the sliced netting. There were darker lumps inside the netting above him. One of the lumps did not stir. The other became the figure of a girl, hunched in a fetal position, feet free, but hands out of sight behind her and mouth taped. Shayne figured more tape held her wrists. The girl’s face took shape. He could see wide open, unblinking eyes above the slash of mouth tape, and the girl wiggled in the netting.

“Shayne!”

The shout from Pope made the detective freeze.

Pope was pointing the muzzle of the gun at a downward angle. Shayne waited for the splat of slug against his forehead. Then Pope laughed suddenly and stood. He looked huge in the gap of the opening.

“How much longer can you hang on, man?”

Pope laughed again and dug into the walls. He pulled the elevator doors together and shut off the light.

Shayne struggled upward for a few seconds while his eyes gradually re-adjusted to the new darkness. He risked a look down. The patch of light and the body were still down there.

Something bumped him lightly. He stared at the swaying lump. The girl in the fish net seemed to be attempting to tell him something with her eyes.

He croaked, “Hang easy, kid. The only way to go is up!”

Logic was his only salvation now. Down was certain death. And the sides of the shaft were closed. His single chance was up. The nets dangled. They had to dangle from something. From an old elevator housing. From I-beams. From hooks. From something. And maybe there was a door, an opening of some kind up there. Elevators had to be serviced from the top too…

He summoned strength and went up, fingers and toes working. He finally caught iron in his right hand, tested it. The iron was shaped into a hook and several strands of rope were bunched on the hook. He went on up, hand over hand, until he was able to plant his right foot in the hook.

He lengthened his body and sucked in a deep breath. The foot already was numbing. He looked up. There was a three-sided line of dim light. Maybe a trap door, hinged on the fourth side. He grasped the single thick strand of rope and hoisted his body. The top of his skull slammed against steel.

He dropped slightly, shook himself against the numbing sensation, then looped his right arm up over the I-beam. He slowly pulled the length of his body up and stretched out on the narrow surface of the beam, gasping for breath.

Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his legs dangling in free space, his fingers gripping the edge of the I-beam as he precariously balanced his weight. He eased back his head, looked up.

The trap door was there, just inches above his head. He lifted his right arm slowly, testing the door. It moved, let in light. He let the door down in a moment of relief, and then shoved it open in a sudden surge of strength that accompanied the victory.

He reached up, grasped the edges of the opening and heaved himself out on to the roof, where he stumbled and fell. When he rolled on to his back and looked up, he was staring straight into the muzzle of his .45. It was held by the hood named Pope.

But all Pope did was gasp and suddenly throw his arms wide. The .45 disappeared. And then Pope seemed to go up on his toes, pause momentarily, and then crash down, smothering the detective.

The sound of the gunshot followed him.

Shayne heaved with palms and knees, flipped Pope from his body. He sat up fast. He was surrounded by silent and unmoving men. All were staring at him as if they had never seen a bloodied, bruised, barefooted, stretched man in tattered clothing.

Len Sturgis came into view. He carried a gun. He squatted beside Pope, who was leaking blood from his ear, wrist and the back of his left leg. Sturgis looked at Shayne head on. “You okay?”

“I’ll live,” growled the detective.

“This one too,” said Sturgis. “A few holes in him, but he isn’t going to die.”

Shayne leaped to his feet. “You find the mayor?”

Sturgis nodded. “Gentry is with him. He has a nasty shoulder wound and a few days in the hospital will put him behind his desk as good as new.”

“There’s two kids down this shaft,” said the redhead, looking down into the darkness. “In fish nets. They—”

“The boys are already on it,” interrupted Sturgis. “We found the elevator doors. We’ll fish them out. You ready to go someplace and clean up a bit? Man, you’re a mess!”

Two hours later, Shayne, Sturgis and Gentry sat in the police chiefs office. They had it all pieced together now. Pope had talked, filling in the gaps. They had the plot, and they knew how the two boys had died. Both by accident: Littrel by a too-heavy blow, Caulkins in an escape attempt, as Shayne had figured it.

“So if it’s done, how come I’m sitting here?” growled Shayne. He was fatigued and grouchy.

Gentry snapped a hard look at him, then snorted and reached into a filing cabinet drawer behind him, brought out a new bottle of Hennessey’s, put it on his desk.

“A little tonic for the nerve ends, Mike?”

Shayne grinned suddenly. The world already looked brighter.